


Liar

by easilyerased



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canon, Gen, POV Second Person, Season/Series 03, Season/Series 03 Spoilers, idk how to tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-28
Updated: 2014-03-28
Packaged: 2018-01-17 07:45:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1379581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/easilyerased/pseuds/easilyerased
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You look at her face, stare into her eyes and the mask is gone and it’s her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Liar

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone! This is my debut fic for the Sherlock fandom. Mildly nervous. Mostly hungry. I hope you enjoy this! I had fun writing it :D Huuuuuge thanks to amusedinred for reading over this for me and correcting my mistakes. Love you bb <333
> 
> This is also posted on [my LiveJournal](http://easilyerased.livejournal.com/71357.html) if you want to comment there.
> 
> (Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to Arthur Conan Doyle and the BBC. I just own the DVDs.)

You ignore the slowing flow of blood from your nostrils for a moment (coagulation slower from the cold and the lack of pressure on the bridge – hurts too much to touch nose at the moment) and look at her properly, sweeping her with your knowing gaze for the first time, despite being familiar with her for almost two hours now.

_Liar._

You can’t let that go, though unsure why. Everyone is a liar. Maybe it’s cautiousness – there is far too much danger around John Watson. So you watch Mary Morstan carefully. You watch how easily she and John act around one another; their seamless interactions and the flawless grace with which they dance around each other in all aspects. She’s perfect for him, you admit to yourself (not begrudgingly, no, more in acknowledgement) and you can see how she has managed to shape herself around John so that they just… _fit_. Like pieces of a puzzle. No, like sand stirred through water.

She hasn’t got a ring on her finger but she is John’s fiancée. They work together at the surgery, which is so cliché you can barely stand it. She smiles at you supportively when you walk past to confront John, she smiles sympathetically when you walk back less than a minute later. They have lunch together at a café, go grocery shopping together after work. They have a car now (domestic ideal, but not logical in such a busy city. Certainly not economical or good for the budget) and they live together. They’re John and Mary, not Sherlock and John. She hasn’t got a ring on her finger but she is more embedded in John’s life than you are. You won’t be able to just be with John, because she is always there.

You hear the door open, hear her dash up the stairs, saying John’s name. You step out of the room and wait at the top of the stairs and it all goes so fast and the next thing you know she is holding out her phone and you peer at the screen.

“Someone sent me this. At first I thought it was just a Bible thing – you know, spam? But it’s not. It’s a skip code.”

Everything freezes and you stare at her. Skip code. Mid-thirties female. Nurse. Fiancée. Cat lover. Shortsighted. Only child.

 _Liar_.

Skip code.

You wonder how she would know a skip code, and for a moment your heart goes cold. But of course it’s nothing suspicious, because nothing _fits_. There are bound to be numerous mindless drivel that passes for television and film that have probably mentioned a skip code. Probably one of those tedious mystery novels John favours.

Time moves forward again and you stare at the words on the screen.

\-----

You continue to watch her and it’s not until quite some time has passed that you realise that you missed something crucial.

She has been watching you.

Face devoid of real emotion, she stares at you and calls you a liar. But she doesn’t say the word – _(liar)_ – she says that you are _fibbing_. Silly little word. (Originated in the sixteenth to seventeenth centuries, _fible-fable_ , reduplication of _fable_.) Childish word to use yet you own up to the truth anyway. She has not only disarmed you but has revealed that she notices you. Observant.

“Oh hang on, I’m buzzing.”

 _Liar_.

She greets this _Beth_ and disappears into the kitchen. John excuses himself (you're not paying attention, calculating the time required to fold one hundred and eighty Sydney Opera Houses out of serviettes. Three per person just to be safe.) and follows.

So the lies are catching.

As if you wouldn’t notice. You know the guest list backwards and there is no _Beth_ mentioned, not even when they were contemplating guests at the beginning of this whole debacle. But instead of pointing this out you simply roll your eyes and turn to the serviettes, folding them without paying any attention to it while trying to overhear the hushed conversation taking place in the kitchen.

It isn’t until John re-emerges that you realise you are surrounded by two dozen Sydney Opera Houses.

\-----

They look blissfully happy and you feel outrageously bored. Photographs are taken – the photographer is really quite pushy (you don’t remember hiring this one anyway) – and the reception begins. She holds onto your arm when you step up beside her, taking the place John has just vacated. She flinches at the wine and informs him that John talks about _Major Sholto_ all the time.

 _Liar_.

Why on Earth would she lie about that? Is she even lying or is her tone simply off in reaction to the wine (another mystery. Domaine Bachelet Monnet Puligny Montrachet. 2011. Imported from France. Delightful on the palate. Strong taste of citrus with a hint of citrus peel. Best served chilled with poultry dishes.) or is she simply teasing? Pretending that John opens up more to her than to you.

She squeezes your arm and bumps against you and you remind yourself that this is _Mary_ and she is not vindictive or cruel or dangerous.

The dining portion of the afternoon passes quickly, as does the speech. You are suddenly on the stairs with your fingers pressed to your temples and John yelling at you to remember. She bursts past, her skirts bunched in one hand while the other grasps John’s.

“Two-oh-seven!”

You don’t have time to ponder why she would remember such a specific number if you couldn’t, but John is yelling again and Major Sholto is going to die.

She says something ridiculous and you snap at her, causing John to resume his yelling – this time at you. (Proves why weddings are a poor idea. Overabundance of stress builds up and up and up, held fast like a cork in a bottle. But release the stopper and out will flow the stress in a burst. _Oh_ …)

You kiss her forehead but don’t realise you have until you’ve done it. Though, really, it’s because of her that John wants to get married and if it wasn’t for that then you may not have found the correct analogy to save the Major’s life in time. Although if it wasn’t for her then John wouldn’t get married in the first place and the Major’s life wouldn’t be in danger… You shake that off and follow her, John, and the Major into the hotel room.

\-----

“ _I’m_ pregnant, _I’m_ panicking.”

 _Liar_.

She’s not panicking at all; her breathing and heart rate are fine. In fact she looks rather… relieved. Relieved why? She and John haven’t been trying for a baby – they certainly haven’t been having the amount of sex a couple in that situation would be. Perhaps she thought that she would never have children? No that doesn’t fit either. You decide against calling her out and instead play along with the charade, telling her to calm down.

The smile that stretches her mouth when John beams at her is completely genuine. Interesting.

\-----

Claire-de-la-lune.

Mary’s fragrance of choice but of course it’s not her.

You step into Magnussen’s flat and confront Lady Smallwood. But then Lady Smallwood turns around and it’s not her.

It’s Mary.

 _Liar_.

You look at her face, stare into her eyes and the mask is gone and it’s her. It’s the real Mary Morstan and there isn’t a single lie on her.

She has the gun pointed at you and a small, odd smile is on her lips – a stranger’s smile – and she says that if you step closer she will kill you.

_Liar._

You feel the impact of the bullet piercing your abdomen before you see the flash at the end of the barrel, before you hear the shot. The blood feels warm.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock. Truly am.”

_Liar?_

She points the gun away from you but she continues to stare into your eyes and for once you cannot read her. You fall.

\-----

She sits on the chair that the clients sit in. She says her piece. She keeps looking at John but at the end of every sentence she glances at you, as though for confirmation. Or approval. You say you’ll take the case because _of course you will_. Mary Morstan is a liar and now you want to figure her out.

It turns out she’s quite like you. John notices too, says that you should get married to one another. For a moment you think that – if she had come into your lives as she truly is – that is likely. It disarms you but then your head swims a little and you remember the internal bleeding.

She steadies you immediately when you start to tip over, but lets you go when the paramedics come through. John keeps holding on, because his buoy isn’t who he thought it was. He’ll come around soon enough, but you remind yourself – as you start to go under – that you can’t die because someone needs to find him. He’s lost.

\-----

She does not hesitate as she walks to you, and you tell her to look after John. You didn’t mean to say it aloud but now you have and you won’t take it back because _someone_ has to. She pulls you into a hug and you suck in your stomach unconsciously as her expanding belly bumps into you and you kiss the air beside her cheek automatically – though you have never actually done that before to anyone in a sincere manner. She tells you not to worry; she’ll keep John in trouble.

 _Liar_.

She will protect him with all she has. Ensure that his life is boring and ordinary and that the most drama he faces is that the corner store has run out of the biscuits he prefers. You smile at her.

“That’s my girl.”


End file.
